“Where’d you hear about her? She don’t usually have no preachers for company.” He did not disturb the position of the cigar when he spoke; he was able to speak on either side of it.
“I ain’t any preacher,” Haze said, frowning. “I only seen her name in the toilet.”
“You look like a preacher,” the driver said. “That hat looks like a preacher’s hat.”
“It ain’t,” Haze said, and leaned forward and gripped the back of the front seat. “It’s just a hat.”
They stopped in front of a small one-story house between a filling station and a vacant lot. Haze got out and paid his fare through the window.
“It ain’t only the hat,” the driver said. “It’s a look in your face somewheres.”
“Listen,” Haze said, tilting the hat over one eye, “I’m not a preacher.”
“I understand,” the driver said. “It ain’t anybody perfect on this green earth of God’st preachers nor nobody else. And you can tell people better how terrible sin is if you know from your own personal experience/’
Haze put his head in at the window, knocking the hat accidentally straight again. He seemed to have knocked his face straight too for it became completely expressionless. “Listen,” he said, “get this: I don’t believe in anything.”
The driver took the stump of cigar out of his mouth. “Not in nothing at all?” he asked, leaving his mouth open after the question.
“I don’t have to say it but once to nobody,” Haze said.
The driver closed his mouth and after a second he returned the piece of cigar to it. “That’s the trouble with you preachers,” he said. “You’ve all got too good to believe in anything,” and he drove off with a look of disgust and righteousness.
Haze turned and looked at the house he was going into. It was little more than a shack but there was a warm glow in one front window. He went up on the front porch and put his eye to a convenient crack in the shade, and found himself looking directly at a large white knee. After some time he moved away from the crack and tried the front door. It was not locked and he went into a small dark hall with a door on either side of it. The door to the left was cracked and let out a narrow shaft of light. He moved into the light and looked through the crack.
Mrs. Watts was sitting alone in a white iron bed, cutting her toenails with a large pair of scissors. She was a big woman with very yellow hair and white skin that glistened with a greasy preparation. She had on a pink nightgown that would better have fit a smaller figure.
Haze made a noise with the doorknob and she looked up and observed him standing behind the crack. She had a bold steady penetrating stare. After a minute, she turned it away from him and began cutting her toenails again.
He went in and stood looking around him. There was nothing much in the room but the bed and a bureau and a rocking chair full of dirty clothes. He went to the bureau and fingered a nail file and then an empty jelly glass while he looked into the yellowish mirror and watched Mrs. Watts, slightly distorted, grinning at him. His senses were stirred to the limit. He turned quickly and went to her bed and sat down on the far corner of it. He drew a long draught of air through one side of his nose and began to run his hand carefully along the sheet.
The pink tip of Mrs. Watts’s tongue appeared and moistened her lower lip. She seemed just as glad to see him as if he had been an old friend but she didn’t say anything.
He picked up her foot, which was heavy but not cold, and moved it about an inch to one side, and kept his hand on it.
Mrs. Watts’s mouth split in a wide full grin that showed her teeth. They were small and pointed and speckled with green and there was a wide space between each one. She reached out and gripped Haze’s arm just above the elbow. “You huntin* something?” she drawled.
If she had not had him so firmly by the arm, he might have leaped out the window. Involuntarily his lips formed the words, “Yes, mam,” but no sound came through them.
“Something on your mind?” Mrs. Watts asked, pulling his rigid figure a little closer.
“Listen,” he said, keeping his voice tightly under control, “I come for the usual business.”
Mrs. Watts’s mouth became more round, as if she were perplexed at this waste of words. “Make yourself at home,” she said simply.
They stared at each other for almost a minute and neither moved. Then he said in a voice that was higher than his usual voice, “What I mean to have you know is: I’m no goddam preacher.”
Mrs. Watts eyed him steadily with only a slight smirk. Then she put her other hand under his face and tickled it in a motherly way. “That’s okay, son,” she said. “Momma don’t mind if you ain’t a preacher.”
CHAPTER 3
His second night in Taulkinham, Hazel Motes walked along down town close to the store fronts but not looking in them. The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks that looked like scaffolding and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars that all seemed to be moving very slowly as if they were about some vast construction work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete. No one was paying any attention to the sky. The stores in Taulkinham stayed open on Thursday nights so that people could have an extra opportunity to see what was for sale. Haze’s shadow was now behind him and now before him and now and then broken up by other people’s shadows, but when it was by itself, stretching behind him, it was a thin nervous shadow walking backwards. His neck was thrust forward as if he were trying to smell something that was always being drawn away. The glary light from the store windows made his blue suit look purple.
After a while he stopped where a lean-faced man had a card table set up in front of a department store and was demonstrating a potato peeler. The man had on a small canvas hat and a shirt patterned with bunches of upside-down pheasants and quail and bronze turkeys. He was pitching his voice under the street noises so that it reached every ear distinctly as if in a private conversation. A few people gathered around. There were two buckets on the card table, one empty and the other full of potatoes. Between the two buckets there was a pyramid of green cardboard boxes and, on top of the stack, one peeler was open for demonstration. The man stood in front of this altar, pointing over it at various people. “How about you?” he said, pointing at a damp-haired pimpled boy. “You ain’t gonna let one of these go by?” He stuck a brown potato in one side of the open machine. The machine was a square tin box with a red handle, and as he turned the handle, the potato went into the box and then in a second,
